


The Call

by madi_solo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madi_solo/pseuds/madi_solo
Summary: Sherlock is forced to confront his deepest fears when he must save the one who matters most.





	1. Chapter 1

“Why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“You never answer your phone.”

Sherlock shifted impatiently as he watched Molly glance at the vibrating cellphone and then turn away again. Each ring felt like an eternity, echoing loudly into the dead silence surrounding them.

“Yes, but it’s me calling,” he responded with a rapidly increasing level of expectant urgency.

Blinking, he became completely still as a strange image flashed before his vision—a dark room with a flat, boring ceiling. He recognized it instantly. 

_“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take the sofa, Sherlock?”_

_“Sofas are for thinking, not sleeping.”_

_“And floors are?”_

_Her reply was followed by a soft chuckle, and Sherlock’s frown deepened. She had first offered him the spare bedroom, which he had “accidentally” ruined with an experiment. Now, he lay on his back on the carpet beside her bed, his head propped up by two pillows as he gazed listlessly at the ceiling, saying nothing._

_“Are you lonely, Sherlock?” Molly asked after a lengthy pause._

_“I don’t get lonely,” he replied dismissively._

_“I do.” Her voice had grown even softer, and he detected a slight tremble in it._

_Again, he said nothing, and silence hung between them. Minutes passed, and Sherlock began to wonder if she had fallen asleep. He swallowed, considering what he might ask her._

_“Have you spoken to John?”_

_He heard her take a breath._

_“No,” she said. “I can’t bring myself to, not after lying to him.”_

_“It’s for his own good,” countered Sherlock, maintaining a cold edge when he spoke. “His ignorance ensures his safety. The same is true for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…”_

_“I get it, Sherlock. I understand,” Molly interrupted, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”_

_“Fair enough,” he answered quietly._

_In the seconds that followed, he could practically hear the gears of her mind turning, constructing sentences and then dismantling them. It irritated him. “You have questions?” he inquired impatiently._

_“Several,” she replied. “First off, what have you been doing—you know, since that day? I’ve called. I’ve texted. You never responded.”_

_“I was busy.”_

_The sound she made was something between a huff and a laugh that was bereft of amusement. “Doing what?”_

_“Which narrative would appease you?”_

_Molly heaved an exasperated sigh, and he heard her shift her body to face the window, whose curtains were pulled closed. “You know something, Sherlock Holmes? One day, you’ll phone me, and I might decide not to answer.”_

_“Impossible,” he scoffed, allowing a smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth._

_However, when his statement was met with silence, he became slightly concerned. His brow furrowed. “Molly?”_

_No answer. Sherlock waited a moment, then sat up. Peering over the edge of the mattress, he saw her lying there with her back to him. He hesitated, contemplating. Her brown hair was splayed across the pillow, her bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the bedcovers. Scolding himself, Sherlock straightened and finally faced her with his whole body. He leaned forward slightly, a knowing gleam in his eyes._

_“Do you want to know how I’ve been dismantling Moriarty’s secret network?”_

_Slowly, Molly turned over, propping herself on her elbow and observing him with renewed interest. “I’m listening,” she smirked._

The ringing stopped, as did Sherlock’s heart when he was suddenly recalled to the present. 

“Hi, this is Molly—at the dead center of town,” came her cheerful voice, which was followed by an awkward but self-satisfied snicker. “Leave a message.” 

He paced in a tight circle, his frantic gaze sweeping over John and Mycroft as they both lowered their heads. He felt helpless—powerless.

“Okay, okay…” Eurus relented, “just one more time.” 

The phone dialed again, and Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the screens once more, three cameras displaying different views of Molly in her kitchen—in her kitchen ignoring him. 

“Come on, Molly, pick up,” John muttered, arms crossed over his chest as he anxiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Bloody pick up.” 

Sherlock’s head was down, pressed against the cold barrel of the gun, which was aimed away from him. He couldn’t look, couldn’t watch anymore. He couldn’t lose her too. 

_“Sherlock!”_

_The sternness in Mary’s tone compelled him to glance up from his phone. His fingers momentarily ceased flying over the keys. Mrs. Watson was eyeing him with undisguised disapproval._

_“Be a gentleman and take Molly’s arm, would you?”_

_They were leaving the church shortly after Rosie’s christening, and Molly seemed to be having trouble walking in her unusually high heels._

_“I’m fine, Mary,” she insisted with a smile as they came to the top of the wide staircase that led down into the courtyard. “Besides, he’s busy. Wouldn’t want to disrupt his constant case-solving.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why would you wear shoes that you can’t walk in, Molly?”_

_She shot him a nasty glare. “I can.”_

_With that, she began moving down the steps at a pace that was far too reckless, and Mary leveled him with a thoroughly condemning look. Shoving his phone into his pocket, Sherlock turned and flew down the stairs, catching up to Molly just as one of her ankles twisted, and the toe of her other shoe caught on the stone. She pitched forward, but not before his arm caught her around the waist. He pulled her back and against himself, her hands still clutching his arm._

_“Are you all right?” he inquired in a tone much kinder than before._

_“I told you I’m fine,” she huffed, removing herself from his grasp. Her cheeks had flushed a bright pink, and she refused to look at him._

_Sherlock glanced back at Mary, who gave him a nod of encouragement. Clearing his throat, he straightened his suit and offered Molly his arm. “I know you are.”_

_She stiffened, hesitating. Finally, she took a breath and turned, slipping her arm through his. But all the while, she did not meet his gaze. Before they resumed their descent, Sherlock looked back at Mrs. Watson once more. She gave him a warm smile, cradling Rosie in her arms as she watched them go._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have viewed, commented, bookmarked, and left kudos on this story. Your kind words encourage me to keep writing:) I hope you all enjoy the second chapter!

Molly glared at the ringing phone as she squeezed a lemon into her tea. His timing could not have been worse. It had been a terrible day at work, and on top of that, she was starting to feel a bit under the weather. But he was being persistent, and she could only assume that there was some ridiculous task he required of her. Part of her wanted to ignore him, wanted him to know how it felt to have his calls go unanswered. But the rest of her could not resist. What if he was in trouble? What if he needed her? 

Knowing that she would probably regret this, Molly set down the lemon, dried her hands on a towel, and moved to the end of the counter. Picking up her phone, she looked at the name on the screen—his name. It infuriated her, the power that one word had over her. Some greater instinct, some deeper desire, triumphed over her more bitter impulses, and she pressed the phone to her ear. 

“Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent? ‘Cause I’m not having a good day.”

“Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why.”

Of course. She had expected this. She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Oh God, is this one of your stupid games?”

“No, it’s not a game. I…need you to help me.” 

“Well, I’m not at the lab,” she replied briskly, still certain that he was only calling because he needed to solve a case. 

“It’s not about that,” he persisted. 

“Well, quickly then,” said Molly, beginning to clean up the items she no longer needed. There was a pause, and she rested her free hand on the counter, becoming more perplexed with each passing moment. “Sherlock? What is it? What do you want?”

“Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words.”

Now she was intrigued. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “What words?”

“I love you.”

The sentence hit her like a freight train, and she suddenly felt unsteady. Sniffing, she brought the phone down in front of her face, having every intention of ending the call. “Leave me alone.”

“No, Molly, please don’t hang up! Do not hang up!”

Her cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment as she put the phone back to her ear. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?” 

“Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.” He took a breath, regaining some of his former composure. “Molly, this is for a case. It’s-it’s a sort of experiment.” 

There it was—a case. That was all that mattered to him. It was all that ever had mattered to him. Only now did she realize it, as he reduced her deepest, most powerful feelings to a statistic—a number on a chart. She shut her eyes. _Experiment._

_“Believe it or not, I’ve got this completely under control, Molly.”_

_“Do you?” she demanded, shoving the results of his physical examination in his face._

_Sherlock’s features were haggard, his hair unkempt and his eyes sunken. His blue collared shirt was only half buttoned, his robe lying on the stretcher behind him. Molly held on as the ambulance made a turn, feeling her face grow hotter._

_“I’m not going to lie for you,” she said, shaking her head, “not this time.”_

_“I’m not asking you to,” he insisted. “I want you to tell John exactly how bad it is.”_

_Her brow furrowed, her chest tightening. When she spoke, her voice was constricted. “Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to yourself?”_

_Sherlock looked at her long and hard, sensing her deep consternation and distress. His expression softened, his posture relaxing slightly. “This is a plan, Molly,” he admitted finally, “just like before, with Magnussen.”_

_“No, it’s not like before,” she countered sternly. “You’re going to kill yourself, Sherlock!”_

_His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenching. “I have no choice in the matter.”_

_“What do you mean?” she pressed, her voice softening again. “Talk to me, Sherlock.”_

_He refused to say anything more, lowering himself onto the stretcher and resuming the buttoning of his shirt. Molly did not take her eyes off him, but now he was avoiding her gaze. When at last he spoke again, his voice was cold and detached, and he evaded her questions._

_“When we arrive, we’re going to pretend that we never had this discussion. John can’t know that what I am doing is intentional.” Pausing, he glanced up at her. “Do I have your word, Molly?”_

_She observed him gravely as she rocked back and forth with the motion of the ambulance. “Your life is not an experiment, Sherlock.”_

_His eyes widened, pleading, and he leaned forward. “Your word, Molly.”_

_Her insides twisted, and she looked away, feeling sick. She shut her eyes, every fiber of her being wanting to say no, but the profound urgency in his voice broke her will. Stiffly, she nodded, and he settled back, his desperation fading._

_“Thank you, Molly.”_

_As the ambulance rolled to a stop, she opened the lid of the nearest compartment and withdrew a familiar black wool coat. It was long and heavy in her arms, bearing the distinctive scent of 221B Baker Street. The scent of him. Swallowing hard, Molly fought to repress the many memories that bubbled to the surface._

_“Here,” she said as casually as she could manage, tossing it onto his lap._

_Before he could say or do anything, she turned her back on him and opened the doors of the ambulance, sitting down and allowing her legs to dangle over the edge. Her eyes were glued to the asphalt, her chest clenching painfully as she struggled to convince herself that she was not going to tell a lie. What she was going to tell John was the truth, after all, but it was only a half-truth._

_After Sherlock had faked his death, she had sworn to herself that she would never keep a secret like that from John, or any of them, ever again. Now, here she was, not telling him that Sherlock was embarking on some sort of mad suicide mission. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up, could keep sacrificing her integrity, could keep putting her life on hold—all upon the whims of Sherlock Holmes._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait is over! Chapter 3 is finally here! I hope all of you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it:)

“I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.”

Her voice was wounded and trembling, each word stabbing painfully into his chest. What a fool he was—a complete, utter fool!

“No, I know you’re not an experiment,” said Sherlock, quickly correcting himself. “You’re my friend. We’re friends, but, please, just—say those words for me.”

“Please don’t do this,” she begged quietly. “Just…just—don’t do it.”

“It’s very important. I can’t say why, but I promise you it is.”

“I can’t say that. I can’t—I can’t say that to you.” 

She was breaking, but he continued to press her. 

“‘Course you can. Why can’t you?”

“You know why,” she answered evasively.

“No, I don’t know why.” He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. 

Molly sighed and sniffed, strengthening her resolve. “Of course you do.”

She was right, after all. Of course he knew. He had always known, but for years he had dismissed it as nothing more than a silly infatuation, something that regular people would define as a “crush.” Sherlock remembered all of the times he had humiliated and belittled her in front of everyone, indifferent to the pain it caused her until one particular Christmas party. He had always expected her to move on, had always assumed that she would find someone else and forget him completely. That was the gravest miscalculation he had ever made. 

_“I’m putting the extra slices in the fridge, okay, Sherlock?”_

_He grunted in reply, lying on his back on the sofa at 221B. They had just returned from his impromptu birthday gathering at the cake shop down the street, and now he was quite weary of small talk._

_“Ugh, is that—? Sherlock, there’s a bag of severed toes in your fridge.”_

_“Yes,” he mumbled, “I put them there.”_

_“They’re rotting. They smell awful. I’m tossing them out.”_

_“No!” he cried, his eyes going wide._

_Hearing the rustling of plastic, Sherlock bolted upright and leaped from the sofa, rounding the corner and racing into the kitchen. Molly’s back was half-turned to him, and she was carrying something. She was going to throw it in the bin. In a blind frenzy, he seized her arm and spun her to face him. She gave a startled cry, and there was a loud crash as glass shattered._

_Sherlock found himself gazing down at a broken plate, plastic wrapping, and the flattened remains of a chocolate cake. His face fell. She wasn’t tossing the toes. She was setting the cake on the countertop instead. Blinking, he slowly raised his head and looked at her._

_There were tears welling in Molly’s brown eyes as she stared down at the icing smeared across the tiles. He said nothing, and finally, she met his gaze._

_“Why do you—why do you always have to—?”_

_Her voice was choked and trembling, and she could not finish her sentence. Swiping at her eyes, she stormed past him, and Sherlock swallowed hard. Turning, he followed her back into the other room. Her face was lowered, one hand massaging her forehead while the other gripped her elbow._

_“Molly, I’m—”_

_“Don’t,” she interrupted sharply. “Just…just give me a minute, okay?”_

_He stood there for a long while, watching her. All he could see was the back of her blue sweater and her long chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders._

_“This isn’t about the cake, is it?” he said at last, breaking the silence._

_Sniffing, Molly faced him, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Her eyes were brimming with deep and abiding pain, and she clenched her jaw in a feeble attempt to keep her lips from trembling._

_“Your phone,” she admitted reluctantly. “It…went off while we were having cake. That sound—I haven’t heard it since—”_

_“The Christmas party, yes,” Sherlock replied. “The Woman is alive, and yes, I have known all along. I am, in fact, the one who spared her from an unpleasant fate.”_

_“So, you two still keep in touch then.”_

_He rolled his eyes and sighed. “First John and now you. What does it matter?”_

_“You’re right,” she responded coolly. “I suppose it’s none of my business.”_

_Molly started to move past him, but he stopped her with a single word._

_“Sometimes. Sometimes, I text her back, but I try not to.”_

_Sherlock did not understand why he suddenly felt so guilty, why he felt that it was necessary to explain himself to her. Yet here he was, doing exactly that._

_“So you do respond to texts after all,” she remarked with a sad smile. “I always wondered.”_

_“What are you doing?” he inquired as she continued into the kitchen._

_“Cleaning up this mess,” she called over her shoulder. “I know you won’t do it.”_

_While she was sweeping up the shards of broken glass and wiping the floor clean, Sherlock was turning desperately to and fro. Think. Think! he told himself. Molly’s night shift was off to a poor start indeed, and he needed to find something to ease the tension, something that would bring a genuine smile back to her face._

_At last, an idea came to him, and he hurried over to the chest of drawers, rummaging through the unorganized junk inside until he found what he was looking for: Operation. Sherlock withdrew the old game with a smile. Then he dragged the coffee table across the floor until it sat squarely between the two chairs in front of the hearth. Sitting down in his black armchair, he took the game out of its box and set it on the table._

_“Sherlock, what’re you doing in there?”_

_He did not reply, settling back and smiling smugly. A moment later, Molly appeared in the doorway, and her scolding expression faltered._

_“What’s this?”_

_“Come on,” he grinned, rolling his eyes. “I know that you’re used to dead ones, but surely you can recognize a patient when you see one.”_

_“Are you referring to yourself or the game?” she quipped._

_There was a twinkle in his eye, his gaze unfaltering. “Are you going to play or not?”_

_“That’s John’s seat,” she replied, nodding at the comfy red chair._

_Sherlock smirked. “John doesn’t have to know.”_

_A small smile brightened her tired features as Molly came over. She hesitated a moment, glancing down at the well-worn chair, but then she carefully lowered herself into it. Unsure of how to sit, she clasped her hands in her lap and remained quite rigid._

_Pleased, Sherlock smiled, leaned forward, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Let’s play.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, guys. You have my deepest apologies that this next chapter has been so long in coming. But it has finally arrived, and now only one chapter remains!

"Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock." 

Sherlock shut his eyes, as if to stave off the coming pronouncement of failure. “Please just say it.”

“I can’t—not to you.”

“Why?” 

Bit by bit, he was getting to the heart of it. Each layer was peeled back with all the agony and opposition of a nail that is forcefully removed from one’s finger. 

“Because…because it’s tr—“ Her voice broke, shattering him in turn. She inhaled a shaky breath and choked back a sob. “Because…it’s true, Sherlock. It’s always been true.” 

His chest suddenly became so tight that he couldn’t breathe. It burned. What was this—this pain that eluded all description? His throat constricted as he fought to utter his next words. “Well if it’s true, just say it anyway.” 

She was laughing and crying all at once, probably thinking that only Sherlock Holmes would have the nerve to attempt to extract a confession in this way. Cursing him, Molly persisted in her refusal to comply. 

"Say it anyway.” His voice was forceful, commanding—desperate. 

"You say it,” Molly replied promptly. "Go on. You say it first.”

He blinked, then stared blankly at the screens in front of him, unable to tear his gaze from her. She wanted him to—how could she turn the tables on him like this? It was simple—just three words. A code, a password. Sherlock could not understand why she would not say it until he was suddenly asked to do the same. 

“What?”

"Say it,” she prodded. "Say it like you mean it.”

Her voice had regained its composure. It was quiet but firm, yearning and coaxing. He was at a loss. He couldn’t say it. It wasn’t true. Love was beneath him, a chemical defect found in the losing side. And he had no intention of losing. 

"Final thirty seconds.”

Eurus’ cold, detached voice warned him without a hint of concern, reminding him of the numbers in the upper right corner that continued to steadily count down. Sherlock closed his eyes again, swallowed, an internal battle raging inside him. He had to think logically, reasonably. Was it really worth losing Molly over a few silly words? 

But even if he said them, he realized, he could still lose her. If he lied to her, she would know it. Her heart would be broken, her friendship lost to him. If he was going to say it, he had to mean it. But could he? Did he? 

“I…”

His own voice sounded foreign in his ears. Behind the darkness of his lids, he saw her face. Brown eyes shone with adoration as she admired him from afar. An instant later, they were wide and doe-like as he relentlessly humiliated her. He always said such horrible things. The palm of her hand stung his cheek, but the interior damage was far greater. She mattered to him. Always. Even when she didn’t know it. Even when he did not. 

“I love you.” 

The words escaped him before he gave them permission. An instinct, a desire beyond his comprehension had compelled him to act. The sentence sounded strange and unnatural as it emerged from his lips. But not wrong. 

A smile flickered across Molly’s features, the phone pressed to her ear, grasped with both hands.

Warmth spread through him as he remembered the kiss he had planted on her cheek, the disappointment he had felt as he turned and walked out that door. So many times, they had worked together, always solving cases, always just business. But not that day. That day was different. 

She was his confidant. She had helped him accomplish the greatest feat he had ever attempted, the greatest ruse. Never, even then, had she abandoned him. She was the one who saw him, even when he thought no one else did, and he could not bear to imagine his life without her in it. Because… Because...

“I love you,” he said again, more quietly and with the unforeseen realization that it was true. 

Molly closed her eyes, thumb pressed to her tightly closed lips. Then she pulled the phone away from her ear. 

A wave of terror washed over him. “Molly?”

Fourteen seconds. 

She wasn’t saying it back. Why wasn’t she saying it back? Sherlock shifted anxiously, forgetting to breathe. “Molly, please.”

His deepest, most carefully concealed feelings had been lain utterly bare—to John, to Mycroft—even to the sister whom he had forgotten. He was vulnerable, exposed, and completely at the mercy of the woman who remained silent on the other end of the line. 

Cradling the phone in her hands as if it had suddenly become impossibly fragile, Molly raised it slowly to her lips. She took a breath, and his heart stopped as the final seconds counted down. 

“I love you.” 

Obnoxious beeping rang in his ears as a sigh of relief escaped his lungs. The clock stopped with two seconds remaining. Doubled over, hands pressed to his head, Sherlock felt as if he had been torn in two. He had said them—the words he had sworn never to say to her—and there was nothing he could do to take them back. 

“Sherlock, however hard that was—"

“Eurus, I won. I won,” he said quickly, having no desire to hear Mycroft’s poor attempt at comfort. His back remained turned to them as he raised his eyes to the surveillance camera. “Come on, play fair! The girl on the plane—I need to talk to her."

Silence. 

"I won! I saved Molly Hooper!” he insisted, voice rising in desperation. 

Something between a mirthless laugh and a snort of disgust crackled through the speakers as his sister’s pale features appeared on the screen. “Saved her? From what?”

His heart plummeted.

She feigned innocence, but her voice dripped with icy arrogance. “Oh do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy?”

In that moment, he understood. The goal had not been for him to save Molly. She was never in any danger, no danger except that which he posed himself. Eurus wanted to see his walls come crashing down, wanted to experience each microexpression as it crossed his face. She wanted to see him love, wanted to see him fail in his effort to isolate himself. She wanted to see his facade of detached strength crumble in an instant, reduced to the ultimate weakness. 

"You didn’t win,” she said, her eyes frigid. "You lost. Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions… I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time.”

The gun clunked onto the table beside the open coffin as he turned his back on her. She was still speaking, but he was no longer listening. All he could see was the plaque on the lid, the three words engraved on its golden surface. The three words that had destroyed him. 

John and Mycroft were moving toward the new opening that had appeared in the concrete walls, but Sherlock paid them no mind. With trembling hands, he lifted the lid and carried it reverently to its companion. As he carefully covered the vacant coffin, he was haunted by a vision where it was not empty. 

Loving someone meant that he would one day lose them, and now he was forced to face that reality. Worse—she returned his love, and her affections were of a capacity he could never hope to match. He could never satisfy her. He could never give her the life she deserved. In confessing the truth to her, he had not only destroyed himself, but her as well. Now that she knew, she could never move on, and he was at fault for it. 

“Sherlock…”

John looked on helplessly as his friend ignored him, Sherlock’s fingers tracing the smooth wooden surface as his angular features screwed up in pain. 

“No,” he muttered, pacing like a caged animal as he unbuttoned his jacket. “No!”

With a crash, his fist plunged into the coffin’s center. Again and again, he struck it, reducing it to jagged splinters. He had slipped into a blind rage, coat flying as he snatched up the fragments and the linens and threw them down. Blood boiling, heart pounding, an agonized scream rose from the depths of his being and tore through him. The war he had waged for so long was now over. 

He had lost.


	5. Chapter 5

Wet shoes squeaked and slid on an impeccable gray floor—or at least it was before his thoroughly saturated soles sullied it. Rounding the corner like a giraffe with skates strapped to its feet, Sherlock imagined that he must be an utterly ridiculous sight indeed. Completely drenched from head to toe, he dragged himself through the maze-like corridors of St. Bart’s, thrusting a hand against the wall every now and again to maintain his balance. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes as his coat flew wildly behind him, leaving a trail of puddles in his wake. 

Skidding past a wide-eyed woman wearing a lab coat, he addressed her breathlessly. “Hooper—have you seen Molly Hooper?”

Wordlessly, she pointed toward the adjacent hallway, and he took off again. Doors lined the walls on either side of him, many of them propped open. Those that were not had rectangular glass panes positioned at eye level that Sherlock used to glance inside each room as he passed. Not there…not there. Not there either. No...no—definitely not that one. 

He was moving so quickly by this point that he slipped by the next door in a fraction of the time he had spared for the others. The contents that lay beyond the reflective surface were nothing more than a collection of blurs at first, but then they began to materialize into recognizable shapes, colors, and… He stopped. White lab coat. Long brown hair tied back. 

Retracing his steps, Sherlock peered through the glass once more. It was her. Lips parting, he shrank away from the door, shoulders sagging as he slouched against the wall. Hands shoved into the pockets of his still-dripping coat, he hung his head and shut his eyes.

He had rehearsed this a thousand times, calculated and predicted each possible outcome. But for all his preparation, Sherlock found himself completely at a loss. What to say? How to tell her? How to explain? He wasn’t right for her, couldn’t be, but she would not believe him. She wouldn’t listen—not now.

“Think. Think!” he scolded. 

Fingers pressed to his temples, he desperately fought to ignore the loud thumping of his heart. This was unacceptable. He was better than this. He needed to gather his wits about him before—

 _Click._

His head shot up, hands still hovering on either side of his head. There she stood, in the light of the now open doorway. 

“Sherlock,” she gasped, startled. Freezing awkwardly in midstep, it took her a moment to regain her balance and her breath. “What’re you doing here? What do you want?”

Molly crossed her arms defensively over her chest, her surprise swiftly replaced by resentment. The bitter pain of cruel rejection lurked within her tired eyes. Bloodshot, he noticed—puffy and rimmed with shadows. She had been taking many night shifts.

Slowly, Sherlock straightened, swiping the water out of his eyes. He suddenly felt like a fool, standing there sopping wet in the middle of the morgue and not having a single clue as to what he should say next. 

She wrinkled her nose, brow furrowing. “Is it raining out? Have you…?” Her voice trailed off as realization dawned on her. “Sherlock, did you walk here?”

“Perhaps,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze and adjusting his coat. 

“Why?”

The question was softer, kinder, and he dared to raise his eyes. “I…needed time to think.”

“About what?”

He swallowed. “About what happened before.”

“What’s there to say, Sherlock?” She shrugged dismissively, but her voice was strained. “You got what you wanted. Then you hung up. I’m sure you and-and whoever else you were with had a good laugh…”

“That isn’t what happened,” he said firmly, her grave misunderstanding of what had transpired prompting him to speak. “It wasn’t a game. I told you that.”

“Then what was it?”

Her patience was running low, and he was thinking at light speed. Blinking profusely, he shook his head as his frustration continued to build.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. 

She sighed heavily and moved past him, appearing to have given up. Hands clenching desperately at his sides, Sherlock took a step toward her. 

“Molly, wait,” he pleaded. 

Reluctantly, she stopped and turned to face him once more. Her brows were raised expectantly as she awaited whatever it was he had to say. 

“It’s true,” he admitted, his chest constricting painfully. “I don’t know what it was. But it was something.”

The hard line of her mouth softened, and she blinked in surprise. Nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she leveled him with a very serious look, daring to hope. “What…” she ventured hesitantly, “what are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I’m saying…” He took a breath, his throat so tight he could barely speak. “I was wondering if…” He shook his head, deciding to throw caution to the wind as the perfect words suddenly came to him. The slightest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally lifted his head and met her gaze. “I was wondering if you would like to have coffee.” 

She stared at him, stunned. Then she began to stutter. “It’s-it’s the middle of the night, Sherlock. I’m working. I can’t just—”

“Right,” he glanced away, internally scolding himself, “of course.” 

“How about tomorrow?”

His eyes darted back to her face. She was smiling. His mouth opened and closed several times before any reply actually emerged. 

“All-all right.”

“Good,” she said cheerfully. "I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

Completely dumbfounded, Sherlock managed a distracted nod. Still grinning from ear to ear, she started to walk away, but then she paused. In two steps, Molly reached him, stretching up onto the tips of her toes and planting a kiss on his cheek. As she drew back, her brown eyes sparkled even in the dim light of the hall, rendering him utterly speechless. 

Blushing, she turned away, her quiet steps retreating, and Sherlock gazed after her. Slowly, a smile brightened his anxious features. It was some time before he could bring himself to move, but when he did, his back was a little straighter, his chin a little higher. Perhaps, he decided, he would walk home in the rain too.


End file.
